


Personal Upside

by synchronik



Series: Not The Prettiest Game [5]
Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 04:40:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1102517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synchronik/pseuds/synchronik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris gets traded to the Pirates.  Ryan does not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Personal Upside

They take separate cars to the gym for obvious reasons. It's one of the rare occasions when homophobia has a personal upside because Ryan's workout is much more involved and takes an hour longer than Chris's and a separate car means Chris doesn't have to hang out and wait and pretend not to be waiting. He's walking out the door with his duffel bag over his shoulder, smiling to himself at the image of Ryan grimacing through calf raises, when his phone rings. He fishes it out of the bag in the foyer. New York number.

Chris sighs and hits answer. "Yellow."

"Chris Stewart, please," an older woman says, and when he acknowledges who he is, she tells him to hold for the front office.

Chris has been waiting for this. The Yankees aren't going to keep him, not with the acquisition of McCann and Romine coming back and Reynolds in the wings. He's been expecting this. It's Cashman himself, GM of the Yankees, which Chris hadn't expected. He's just a backup guy after all. 

"You've done a great job for us, Chris," Cashman says.

"Thank you, sir." He wants to short circuit the pleasantries and get to the point--where's he going?--but there's no way to say that without sounding like a prick, so he doesn't.

"And you've seen the news, I'm sure."

"I have, yes."

"So the bad news is that we won't be signing you again this year. You understand."

"I do."

"How do you feel about Pittsburgh, Chris?"

Chris coughs. "I'm sorry?"

"They have a need and they've asked about you."

"The, um?" Chris glances out the front of the gym. Through the glass wall, he can see the river and the black scaffolding of PNC Park. "I--Pittsburgh is great."

"Glad you think so," Cashman said, although Chris is pretty sure Cashman doesn't give a fuck whether he likes Pittsburgh or not. "We'll reach out to your agent with the details."

"Sounds good," Chris says. "Thanks for the call."

"Thanks for your hard--" The line disconnects. Chris assumes the last word is "work" and not "dick" or something. He slides the phone back into his bag and heads back into the gym. Ryan is not going to believe this.

* * *

"No shit?" Ryan says. His hair is peaked with sweat, nostrils flared. He's breathing a little hard; he was in the middle of lunges when Chris came back into the gym.

Chris laughs a little. "No shit."

"That's." Ryan runs a hand over his wet hair. They're in a corner of the gym away from the locker rooms, near a set of balance balls that Chris has never seen anyone use. "That's unbelievable."

"I don't even have to move," Chris says. 

"Chris, I." Ryan glances around, but the gym is too crowded and Chris knows it. "Congratulations, man." He comes in for a bro hug and Chris accepts, hips back, one arm still at his side. "See you at home," he whispers as they separate.

"Thanks, dude," he says, trying to suppress his grin.

* * *

He's naked and clean and face down on the bed by the time he hears the key in the door. He hears Ryan moving through the condo, dropping his bag and keys, shucking his shoes. Chris arches his back when the hall light goes on, shining on his bare skin.

"Oh, fuck," Ryan breathes, but there's something in his voice besides sex. Chris lifts his head.

"Ry?"

Ryan's in silhouette, but Chris can see the slump in his shoulders, the downturn of his mouth. Chris pushes himself to his feet, feeling like a jerk. Something's wrong.

"No, it's--" Ryan shakes his head. "I'm fine."

"Yeah, okay," Chris says, and goes to him anyway, resting his hands on Ryan's hips. He smells a little, like sweat and the gym, a smell so familiar to Chris that it isn't even offputting. 

"I'm happy for you," Ryan says, like that's even a question. It's not a matter of Ryan being happy for him, Chris knows. Of _course_ Ryan is happy for him. But Ryan is also terrified for himself.  
The Giants haven't called. The Giants haven't called and they've signed Tim Hudson in the role of veteran presence, replacing Barry Zito. That doesn't mean they won't call--in baseball, it ain't over until it's over--but they haven't yet. As of this minute, Ryan Vogelsong is a pitcher without a rotation.

"They'll call," Chris says, a meaningless reassurance. He slides his hands up to Ryan's face, kisses him. "They'll call."

Ryan responds slowly, still distracted by his future, but after a minute he seems to realize that Chris is there, naked, in front of him and his mouth opens and his shoulders relax. He lets Chris draw him to the bed and slides his shorts down past his knees. Ryan won't let Chris do much without a shower--he's too self conscious about being sweaty--but they make out until Ryan's cock is bumping against Chris' wrist and Ryan's moaning into Chris' mouth with each breath, his hands clutching at Chris's ribs.

"I've got to, oh oh god," Ryan pants. "Let me shower, so you can fuck me."

"Let me fuck you now," Chris says.

"no, no," Ryan moans, pushing Chris' hand away from his erection. "Chris."

"Alright, c'mon then," Chris says. He grabs Ryan's hand, and lurches to his feet. Ryan comes up, almost dead weight, staggering when his shorts trip him up. He yanks his clothes off, one hand on Chris' shoulder to steady himself. Once he's naked, he surges against Chris, his skin sticky and hot.

They shower together, kissing under the hot water until it starts to run cool and even Ryan can't deny that they're clean. Ryan is drying off, balanced on one leg, when Chris nudges him from behind, tugging his towel away from him, opening the drawer holding the lube with one hand. Ryan ends up with his hands braced on the counter, one on either side of the sink, head down, legs apart. Chris catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror, mid-thrust, and is surprised by how dark his eyes look, how intense. He closes them, and sinks his teeth into the nape of Ryan's neck. Ryan moans.

* * *

Chris finally gets what he wants, Ryan pinning him face down on the mattress, hands covering his hands, Ryan sighing in his ear, until Chris is bucking against the mattress, arching without trying to get free of Ryan's hands, his body, his cock. He's already come once, but he spasms again against the bedclothes, shouting, while Ryan whispers "come on, baby, come on," and fucks him steadily, not hurrying at all, no matter how much Chris asks for it.

"Fuck," he says when Ryan's finished. He's so powerful, Ryan, shoulders and thighs and muscled chest. Chris forgets sometimes, because Ryan is so sweet and unassuming, but now, just finished, his chest flush with blood, Ryan looks like Superman. Chris puts a hand on Ryan's stomach, feeling it rise and fall. Ryan opens one eye and smiles at him in a way that lets Chris know he's not quite done yet.

* * *

The first time that Chris was with a guy had involved a blow job. And the second. And third. Chris thought that blow jobs were, like, the gateway drug to gay sex. A lot of the other things involved in sex took preparation and planning, even just a condom, but oral was always right there, easy and amazing.

And Ryan was amazing at them. He liked to ease in to them, stroking Chris' thigh or his stomach casually, planting a kiss on Chris' ribs, sometimes so subtle that Chris didn't even realize what he was thinking until Ryan's tongue swiped across his hip, wet and warm. And then Ryan's mouth would encircle him, and his big hands would spread Chris' legs apart, and brush just beneath Chris' balls while his tongue, god, his _tongue_ and the hot suction. Ryan didn't tease; his version of a blow job was just a steady onslaught of sensation until Chris gave it up, spurting into Ryan's mouth, or sometimes, if Ryan was feeling dirty, across his chest. 

Tonight, Ryan was feeling dirty.

* * *

Chris pulls Ryan up against him, back to chest, his arm over Ryan's shoulder, his fingers brushing Ryan's chest. He nuzzles Ryan just behind the ear, smelling shampoo and skin. Ryan makes a sound like a purr, tilting his head back against Chris' shoulder. 

"You okay?" Chris asks.

"I don't want to talk about it," Ryan says, so Chris stops talking and instead runs his hand over Ryan's pec and down over his stomach, stroking slowly until Ryan's dick twitches again.

* * *

Chris wakes up sometime midmorning, when the sun is already streaming through the bedroom windows. Ryan is still asleep, face turned the other way, arm curled around a pillow. It's too much bare skin for Chris to resist; he puts a hand flat against Ryan's shoulder blade.

Ryan stirs. In the morning, he is disgustingly cute, his hair whipped up into a frenzy, his eyes sleepy and relaxed. Chris slides up next to him and presses his mouth against Ryan's skin.

"Can we just..." Ryan yawns. "Do this all day?"

"Just this?" Chris asks, his hand moving to cover Ryan's hip. He can almost hear Ryan's smile.

* * *

Later, they eat cereal in the sunny kitchen, Ryan in sweatpants, Chris in boxer shorts. Ryan gets up from the table to get more orange juice, and Chris stops eating to watch him highlighted against the bright blue winter sky.

He can't say it to Ryan, but Chris doesn't think it would be so bad if the Giants don't call. This is Ryan's home, after all, and if the Giants don't call for the first time since 2011, he and Ryan will be in same place for the season. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, to come home and have Ryan here, cooking dinner, waiting for him. Maybe he'll even wear an apron, or something. That wouldn't be bad.

Ryan turns with the carton of orange juice in his hand, sun splashed across his bare chest. "Did you want--what?"

Chris smiles. "Nothing." He doesn't say it, because he's already got a contract. He wouldn't be the one playing the wife.

* * *

They take a nap pressed tightly together on the couch even though the bed is right down the hall, and make out on the couch in front of Sports Center, and eat pizza for dinner (Chris puts on a shirt before answering the door, but takes it off again before even getting out plates). It's dark out when Ryan pushes him flat on his back on the bed and sinks onto him, arching his back and sighing. The sex is slow and intense and Chris finds himself crying out against Ryan's mouth, legs trembling, by the end.

"Fuck, I love you," he groans after Ryan cums on his chest and collapses, panting, on top of him.

Ryan laughs. "Who wouldn't love me after that?"

Chris chuckles and strokes his hands up and down Ryan's spine. Above them, he can see snow falling against the skylight, brushing silently against the glass. He's going to be here, not just now in the off-season, but next year, too, living here while he's playing baseball. They had picked out the condo together, he and Ryan, but it had been Ryan's money, and Ryan's name was on the title. That made sense, for obvious reasons, but suddenly he was going to live here during the season, during his job. At his house. The house that he shared with his boyfriend. Ryan. 

"I love you," he says again.

Ryan kisses Chris' chest, just below the collar bone. "Damn right," he says. He means "I love you, too" and Chris knows it.

* * *

Ryan's phone rings, a midi version of "I Left My Heart in San Francisco," the tone that Ryan's set for his agent. Ryan lifts his head from Chris' chest, his face perfectly calm. For a second he regards the phone, not even breathing. Chris doesn't move his hand from the base of Ryan's spine. Ryan leans over him and reaches for the phone. "Hey, Dave."

Chris closes his eyes. He feels Ryan's breath hitch under his hand, hears the tremble in Ryan's voice as he says "okay, okay, thanks Dave." Ryan drops the phone on the bedside table and buries his face in Chris's shoulder, breathing hard. 

Chris crushes Ryan to him, squeezing as tight as he can. "Good or bad?" he whispers.

"One year, five million plus incentives," Ryan says, his lips barely moving against Chris' throat. 

"Oh, baby," Chris murmurs. The dark room sparkles with joy. "Baby."


End file.
